Porn Star(108)
“I can’t stop,” I breathed in her ear. “You’re too f*cking sexy right now.”
“In my giant black graduation robe?”
“Don’t forget the hat, Cass.”
She finally succeeds in pushing my hands down and creating enough space between us that she can straighten the aforementioned hat and smooth down the robe. “You need to wait until we’re home,” she scolds. “We both got accepted into graduate programs here, remember? We will still have to look these professors in the eye next fall, which will be a little awkward if they see you drilling me right after the commencement ceremony.”
“Fine,” I sigh. And even though my entire groin aches, I help her readjust her garb and I don’t even fuss once. I do pull her close and growl in her ear, “You better be ready when we walk through that door, though. I’ve waited too long to have you already.”
With a quick look around us, Devi takes my hand and guides it under her gown. She’s not wearing any underwear and so there’s no barrier between my fingers and her flesh. She’s so wet right now, so slick, and I groan at the thought of pushing myself inside there. “I’m very ready for you,” she says. “I’d let you f*ck me right now if I wasn’t worried my faculty advisor would see.”
“Like he’s hasn’t watched every single one of our scenes already,” I grumble. But I stop teasing her wet folds and step away, grateful my own graduation gown hides my insistent erection. “Home, Cass. Now.”
* * *
The drive to our little Travis Heights bungalow is mercifully swift, and I have Devi out of the car and against our front door in almost no time at all. It makes me smile against her mouth as I think of all the times we’ve come home this way over the last four years, practically undressing each other before we could even unlock the door. Especially that first year—the transition from f*cking for hours every day to listening to lectures on introductory physics and early American lit was torture. Most days I had to text Devi and hunt her down on campus in order to f*ck her in a conveniently empty bathroom or in an abandoned corner of the library, and even when I started to acclimate to a porn-civilian’s life, I still found myself craving her almost constantly. I left porn in order to be with her, but now that I was here, I found that spending time together was harder than ever. We were both busy with classes and homework, and we no longer had long stretches of our day that we could devote to marathon sex sessions. It didn’t take me long to figure out that the only way I could live with that is if we instead devoted long sessions of our nights to making love.
Which we did. Very happily.
There were other strange parts about my new life. For one thing, although I knew my classmates would be a decade younger than me, I definitely didn’t expect them all to recognize Logan O’Toole on sight. I still get covert high-fives from the boys and lots of batted eyelashes from the girls, and at least once a day, I get some person asking me for sex advice or an autograph or a date. The date offers are the hardest to deal with, not because I’m even the littlest bit tempted to date anyone other than Devi, but because I’m so laughably not tempted that it’s hard to be kind when I explain to these girls that I’m not interested. I’m sure they’re all nice and smart, but I left a life populated by the dirtiest, prettiest women imaginable to be with Devi; I’m certainly not going to be lured away by a psych major from North Dakota.
The thing is, when I fell in love with Devi, I realized what it is to look up at the stars, and once you’ve seen the stars, it’s impossible to unsee them, to go back to staring at the ground. Devi sometimes says the same thing to me, or at least I think it’s the same thing—something about different kinds of milk—but the gist is similar. There’s something that happens when you meet someone you love, something alchemical and chaotic and wonderful. That doesn’t mean it’s been easy—there have been growing pains for both of us transitioning out of porn, there have been fights about money and sex and jealousy. There have been times when loving each other—choosing each other over and over again—means repeated sacrifice and the occasional bout of suffering.
The reward, though, is worth it. Every f*cking time.
Like right now, when Devi’s burning a path along my jaw with scorching, desperate kisses and I’ve finally managed to unlock the door and we both tumble into the house. She looks at me with a naughty gleam in her eye and asks, “Want to get the camera?”
“Hell yes, I do,” I groan and peel my body away from hers to grab the handheld. I knew when I left L.A. that I never wanted to perform in any scenes that weren’t with Devi, and I wasn’t sure how interested she would be in ever getting in front of a camera with me again, given all that had happened. But that very first night we were together after I came to Austin she begged me to take dirty pictures of her, and then Star-Crossed blew up so big that Vida was begging us for something like it, anything, and that evolved into us having a long-running series under the auspices of Vida’s company. It’s turned into one of her biggest moneymakers and the most successful thing I’ve ever done. In a strange twist of fate, Devi and I are more famous for porn than we were when we did it all the time. People are hungry for what we show, I guess—real chemistry, real pleasure, real affection and respect. Sometimes we post edited and cohesive scenes, sometimes we just put up raw footage, and sometimes we have live sessions for people to watch—but it’s only ever with the two of us.